The Last Dress from Paris(28)
By the time they reach the top of the aisle, her eyes are full of tears. One slow blink is all it will take to send one sliding down her cheek. Antoine sees her emotion and sighs heavily, then directs her into a row of pews that are facing inward toward the nave in front of two beautiful statues of angels. Then, with no warning, he takes hold of her arm and slides a finger under the cuff of her sleeve.
She visibly jumps.
“Your snap. It’s come undone.” He indicates the small fastening that tapers the sleeve, now hanging open.
“Oh, thank you.” The warmth of his fingers on the delicate skin of her wrist, tracing across her veins, makes her entire body loosen. His touch is so gentle, so intimate, as he keeps his fingers there a second or two longer than necessary before reclining onto the cold wood of the pew. She realizes with an ache in her heart that she’s been so deprived of this tenderness. That she craves it. And here he is, so willing to offer it to her, if only she could let him.
“How old is he?” Antoine angles his body toward her, his elbows propped on his knees so he can lean in closer.
“Forty-eight.”
“Nearly double your age?”
“Twenty-three years older.” Alice tries to keep her face as impassive as possible, knowing full well the point he is making. Then, when he refuses to respond, she asks, “Why are you asking me this?” The attention is wonderful; Alice can’t deny it. But she can’t tell if this is all a bit of fun for Antoine, some macho game playing, while her emotions get tossed around, before he moves on to his next challenge.
“Why do you think?”
“I thought you asked me here today because you wanted some advice about your career. That you were keen to get to know Albert perhaps, thinking that he might be useful to you.” It’s an absolute lie and she hates herself for telling it.
“No, you didn’t.” He’s patient with her, not cross or irritated that she can’t say what she means.
“Antoine. Please, I can’t just sit here and . . .”
“Yes, you can. There are many things I could envy about your husband, Alice. I’ve seen the way he is. How ambitious men want his ear. How beautiful women want his company. The power and influence he has. Those qualities are attractive to many people, I understand that. And, of course, he has you. But please don’t confuse my mother’s ambitions for me with my own.”
“And what do you want, Antoine? What is it that you seem unable to find in my world, that you want for yourself? What’s in your future?” She wonders if he’s even considered it.
“I want to feel things, Alice, to experience the real world in the way people beyond the government walls seem to.” He has swung his legs toward her now, his hands clasped between them, almost resting on her lap. “Not because it’s considered cultured, not because it’s something that will make me look intelligent and informed at the next dinner party. Not from a book. We’re living in Paris at one of the most expressive times in this city’s history, Alice, and what are we doing with our time? Entertaining pompous foreign dignitaries, pretending to care about people we would never have genuine friendships with? Not being cared for ourselves? Do you want another twenty or thirty years of that?”
She can see the passion in Antoine’s face and wishes so much she could match it with her own. The intensity of his confession. Like she’s the first person he’s ever been able to say this to. She wants to return the favor, to make him pleased that he chose her to share it with. But she’s going to disappoint him. Her marriage means she’s from the very world he seems to despise. The image of her wedding day intrudes on the conversation. The uneasiness Alice had felt in her mother-in-law’s company, when it should have been nothing but joyous. She deliberately shifts the conversation.
“Surely you can convince your parents of the validity of another career if politics is not for you. There are plenty of things you could do, things that might not be so disappointing to them. You mentioned your brother. Is his relationship with your parents difficult too?”
His eyes drop to his lap.
“He died three years ago.”
“Oh, Antoine, I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. I still miss him very much.”
Alice watches as he clenches his fingers tightly together, using the discomfort to distract himself from the sorrow of losing a sibling.
He gazes up toward the domed ceiling.
“Thomas was the one who first brought me here. He knew I’d love the colors, that I’d find it inspiring. But in answer to your question, no, his relationship with my parents was very different from mine. He was training to be a doctor, and about halfway through his studies he left the girl he loved behind and volunteered to join the war effort. Within a few weeks he was one of the medics with the troops in eastern France. He was just twenty-two. I was sixteen. I cried when he left.”
“But he made it back? He survived the war?”
“Yes, although I sometimes wonder if it might have been easier if . . .” Antoine’s words are lost to the acoustics. “If he was the golden son before he left, he was awarded a hero’s status on his return. It was as if him coming back to us symbolized an end to everyone’s suffering and restored a sense of hope. Our parents believed all the bad days were behind us.”
“And what about you? Did you share their optimism?”